


tumblr ficlet: blood kink

by kingsoftheimpossible



Series: tumblr prompt fills [7]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:40:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they fuck (because Harry is such a silly boy, knowing what he knows, seeing what he’s seen, climbing hands and knees across Louis’ mattress anyway) Louis nearly tears his throat out with his teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tumblr ficlet: blood kink

**Author's Note:**

> read tags for warnings. short tumblr ficlet from forever ago.

Louis thinks Harry’s heart must look like something newborn, tender and pink and shaking. He imagines it bumbling around on fawn’s legs, tripping over itself, getting caught in brambles and bleeding warm red across everything it touches. On his better days, he wants to guard Harry with his entire being, wrapped soft and close around him like fine furs, a second skin for a boy with so very little of his own.

On his worst days, he wants to tear him open, claw through his chest and see for himself the fragile hummingbird heart beating within. It’s a testament to something golden in himself, or maybe in Harry, that his worst days have never won-

But they’ve fought so very hard. 

The first time they fuck (because Harry is such a silly boy, knowing what he knows, seeing what he’s seen, climbing hands and knees across Louis’ mattress anyway) Louis nearly tears his throat out with his teeth. Harry comes across his own belly, cries and bleeds dark on Louis’ pillow, and the stains don’t wash out. 

Louis is sure that’s the end of it, because it must be. Even infants have some base sense of self-preservation. 

But then Harry’s on his doorstep again, high-collared jacket covering the worst of it, smiling with dimples and all, saying, “Had to get stitches. Did you know they make ones that dissolve? I never got stitches before; it was really neat.” And he goes on and on and on and Louis lets him in, kisses him and licks the stitches pink and swollen, so close to Harry’s blood and tendons that it’s inhuman, the feeling in Louis’ belly; Louis isn’t _human_ with how badly he needs to tear them out.

He doesn’t, yet, but Harry keeps pressing his neck to Louis’ mouth like maybe he wants him to.

It’s all in the blood- how Harry has so much of it, how it rushes to the surface under Louis’ pressing fingers like it wants to get  _out_. It reaches for him, pulls at him, flushes Harry’s skin red so the air between them goes body-hot-

In the dark, when Harry’s chest and stomach go shivery with sweat, Louis can slick his hands through it, smell the iron, pretend that it’s the blood, always the blood. But when he gets his tongue in it, flicks across Harry’s nipples, trembling belly, tensed thighs, it’s just salt. Salt and salt and salt, no iron, no sickly-sweet, too thin.

It’s maddening and frustrating and  _awful_ , leaves Louis biting into the softest bits of Harry- the backs of the his knees, the insides of his elbows, pushing his legs wide to get at the delicate thin skin in the crook between his groin and thigh.

And Harry lets him. 

That’s the best and the worst of it, how Harry just keeps coming back to Louis’ bed, laying out across the sheets and  _letting him_. Because Harry  _knows,_ has the stitches in his neck as a reminder, has the scars bitten into his back and sides, he’s  _seen_ the look Louis gets when he’s cut open and dying right there in the center of the mattress.

The thought sends Louis’ head spinning, and he sinks his teeth  _hard_  into the meat of Harry’s inner thigh to ground himself. Harry gasps, hips jerking off the bed, and moans out something stuttered, broken, leaves Louis to piece it together.

"What is it, love?" Louis murmurs against the broken skin, running his tongue over the wound, into it, and Harry’s whole body shakes like it’s going to shatter apart at the seams. 

"S-stitches," Harry says again, hardly above a whisper, and Louis tightens his lips around the open bite, sucks. " _Please_ ,” and the begging has never been fair.

Louis lets go of Harry’s thigh, crawls up his body until they’re eye to eye in the half-dark of Louis’ bare room. “Ask again, babe, I’m not sure what you need.” 

Harry’s pupils are blown wide, lips bitten red and slack, and he’s so far past answering already that Louis’ stomach tightens in response. Harry’s head falls to the side, tilts up a bit until Louis is staring down at the puffed-up stitches slashed in a dark pink line across Harry’s pale throat.

Eventually, the doctor’s going to get suspicious. There are only so many times Harry can come into the hospital with his neck ripped wide, stitches sucked loose, before someone starts to ask questions.

But that’s not Louis’ problem, so he drops down to bite at the tender skin, hooks a canine tooth between the surgical thread and the healing wound, bites down and pulls until Harry’s sobbing and rolling his hips up, clutching at Louis’ shoulders with shaking hands. 

When the blood starts flowing, a trickle and then a gush in time with Harry’s hummingbird pulse, Louis slicks his mouth with it, his hands, whispers instructions to Harry  _keep pressure on the wound, love, so I can finish_  as he slides his mouth down Harry’s chest, gets to his cock- 

Louis’ favorite part of Harry is his cock, when it’s like this, stiff with blood, jerking wet against Louis’ lips and fingers when he laughs softly against the tip, presses his teeth in lightly, so lightly, lets his pink blood-and-spit drool down the length until it looks like a crime scene. 

Harry tries to say his name, but it comes out a garbled, sleepy mumble, all soft consonants,  _llllooouu, ll-ll, lllouis,_  and he flails a hand down, aim and control gone syrupy with all the blood leaking through his fingers. Louis catches his hand easily, twines their fingers together while he sinks his mouth down. The taste is all Harry, every part of him, his blood, his come, his sweat, all mixed in Louis’ mouth like something heady and  _big_ , his essence. Louis takes him apart like that, sucks and bites at him until he’s sobbing weakly with his knuckles pressed between his teeth-  _keep the pressure on your neck, love, hospital after_ \- and when Harry comes it’s with the softest sound, a mewl that fades back into wet gasps when Louis keeps his mouth on him. 

It’s easy, after that, to bury his face in Harry’s neck, smell the open-iron wound, feel it sticky-hot against his face, rut against the sweatcomeblood-slick crook of Harry’s thigh until Louis shakes apart against him, gnawing bright teeth-shaped bruises into Harry’s collar bone.

Louis cleans them both up, bundles Harry in a sweater and big coat, kisses him lightly on the mouth when he helps him into the passenger seat of Louis’ car. Harry smiles, sleepy-slow and dopey with his orgasm and the blood left on Louis’ sheets.

“‘s good?” he murmurs when Louis settles into the driver’s side and starts the car, and Louis can’t even wrap his head around it, just drops one hand to grab Harry’s cold fingers and squeeze tightly. The hospital is fifteen minutes away, and Harry’s asleep before they even pull out of the parking garage. 


End file.
